Burning Paper Houses
by Bitter Red Irony
Summary: Harry/Draco "Harry nodded a greeting to the hunched figure, who raised his drink in toast as a reply. He was inexplicably happy to catch the cool grey eyes, and see that he wasn’t alone." A story about two war-ravaged souls finding solace in each other.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own nothing

This story is dedicated to _**Spiffing Repartee **_for his wonderful reviews and encouragement. Thank you.

_**Disclaimer**_: I don't own anything you recognize and I'm not writing this for profit.

**BURNING PAPER HOUSES**

**Prologue**

It was the heat he remembered most, the burn of it across his skin; smoldering hot and uncontrollable -and to Draco, undeniably comforting. If he closed his eyes and let himself think of the war that's what sprung to mind first. The _heat_. There was always a fire burning during that time and if you concentrated hard enough on the sound of the cracking flames you could drown out the screams. If you watched the flickering of the golden colours that licked almost gently as they consumed its prey you could ignore the pleading, begging eyes of the victims that piled high around him.

But it was more then that. The heat danced across his cooled skin, warming it till his flesh could almost burn at the touch, so different form the never ending cold that had settled inside him. The flecks of ash fell from the sky, almost indistinguishable from the falling snow, caressed his flesh and settled in his hair and robes burning both from the cold and the heat. Sometimes if he thought about the heat enough, the rest of the nightmare wouldn't come, and if it did, he could almost endure it.

Nights were still spent waking at the slightest noise, wand held tightly in his hand under his pillow, his companion for the night doing little to keep the desperate chill at bay, but still he hung close to the heat, wishing for more, for it to burn him, sear him, maybe melt a little of the cold inside.

It seemed an endless stream of companions warmed his sheets these days. It seemed just as often that their presence did nothing to warm him from the chill of the nights and his memories.

Roxy had been small, thin and young and charmed people with her innate innocence, Draco privately called it her overwhelming naivety though this was never said out loud. She unsettled Draco more then he cared to admit. He hated the way her thin body curled around him, trusting and fragile. It felt like he would break her to push her away. She, like many of her predecessors, loved his scars, thought they were sexy and trendy and would trace them while he lay unmoving beside her. Her hands, so small against the expanse of his broadened chest, small delicate bones covered by soft unblemished skin that seemed too small, too innocent. He saw in those hands his own ability to over power her if he so wished it.

Draco hated his scars, the one across his cheekbone, more a silver line across ivory then a real scar; it shone in the flickering of candle light and reminded him always of the taste of hot, metal-sharp blood on his tongue. The ones across his shoulders and chest, deep cuts and wounds that had burned and felt on fire when he received them, now nothing more then lines like a child's drawing that tell a story of all he lived through in the war, though none could tell of the fear and the pain and the overwhelming cold that he remembered.

Roxy liked to show him off like a piece of flashy jewelry, show him to her trendy friends and have them _ooh_ and _ahh_ over how his pale skin and white blonde hair made his grey-blue eyes tenfold more vibrant, the way he held himself with aristocratic grace and yet fought like a wild animal when challenged.

Draco's never been a trophy before, there was a time when he thought he never would be, the idea was preposterous, a _Malfoy_? Never! Now he seemed to be just that, and the thought sickened him.

Roxy had been a mistake, so had Lucy, and Sadie and Eleanor. After the war everything seemed to be a mistake. It seemed like people just moved on, forgot about the war and all those terrible things that happened to them, to their friends, to faceless strangers. It made him sick sometimes, to see how the wizarding world -_once ravaged by war, hidden away in dirty back rooms, never knowing allies from foes_- seemed able to just _move on_.

Pansy often joked about _before_; would laugh a high tinkling laugh like wine glasses being knocked together. Others would smile and nod and sometimes join in, making it seem like a simple change of government, an un-monumental occurrence, not something that changed the world, with no little loss of life. Blaise would meet Draco's gaze across the room, his eyes clear and unreadable to many, and they would share a silent moment, unnoticed by anybody else, where anger and frustration flashed in another's eyes and they shared their horror at how blasé and flippant others seemed to be. It was never spoken out loud, never confirmed, but it was there, the brief glimmer of hope that they were not alone.

It sometimes scared Draco how fast the world moved on, he never seemed able to catch up anymore, there was a time when he was one of the smartest and fastest wizards of his time, and its all still in there. It just takes him a moment longer because everyone's talking and moving so fast around him he just wants to catch his breath, to rest for a moment. Though sleep doesn't come as easy as it used to, sometimes it feels like he's drowning, and the screams and explosions are so loud he doesn't know how anyone can sleep through it. Those are always there, he doesn't understand how people can talk over it, let alone laugh; high tinkling laughs that grate on his every nerve.

Increasingly often he found himself sitting in a dingy smoke filled corner of a muggle pub, hidden down a back street that went mostly unnoticed. He liked the quite of the place, the low murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses, the smell of the cigarette and cigar smoke that swirled around the room making patterns in the air, grey against blue against white, sometimes he saw faces in the smoke, other times places, sometimes he just saw meaningless swirls that entranced him.

But mostly he liked that they left him alone, let him sit and drink his drink in silence, nobody cast him sidelong glances, a mix of fear, awe and disgust colouring their gaze. He may have been given his freedom, but as far as society was concerned he was and would forever be Death Eater filth, a disgrace like his father, because the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and Lucius Malfoy had caused more pain to more people that many others. This would not be forgotten, and though his father was now long dead, the fear for him lived on.

This pub was also good that it was run by good people, the kind you hear about but never seem to meet. The bar tenders always pause before each refill, make sure this drink won't be the one to push him over the edge. They make sure he drinks to relax not relaxes because he drinks. There's a fine line between enjoying a drink alone and falling prey to loneliness and booze. He knows this, has walked that line himself. It's called addiction, and Draco knows it well.

Addiction in the wizarding world is a thousand times more destructive then in the muggle. As with many things, wizards go one step further, one step more uncontrollable. Magic is the worst addiction, because it's a part of you, it's in your blood and you mind and the very way your body moves, you cant go anywhere without it trailing behind you like an unwanted shadow, a child tugging at its mothers robe constantly in need of attention, of affection till tears fall unabated from the mother out of sheer frustration.

He holds his head high, all aristocratic posturing and pureblood pride, hiding the floating objects that help only slightly to sooth the jagged edge of his desperation, his uncontrollable, unrelenting Need.

When he visits his mother in St Mungos he walks with purpose through the corridors, passing all types of injuries, some that can be cured, given time and the right magic. Others will never be fixed, and the magic they bleed into them just keeps them suspended for a while longer. Like dolls, lifeless and pointless -a shadow of their former selves. He hates to see them as he passes the rooms, their glassy eyes staring back at him. He sees himself reflected there and it scares him.

Sometimes Draco thinks someone will notice, it's strange to him that nobody ever does. How can they not see the flimsy replica of his old self? And sometimes he thinks they do. They just don't mention it because he's a pureblood, and he's a wizard; and they don't talk about such things.

Its seems unavoidable that someone will find out, and know without a shadow of a doubt that the only time he feels alive any more is when the heat of his magic embraces him, and the world around him crackles with his magic and for that all too brief moment he is _warm_.

Sometimes it seems that he's too obvious, leaving too many clues and surviving one too many close encounters that are hard to explain, so often he doesn't, simply raises a questioning, taunting eyebrow and stares at them with cool reserve. _The woman of the night rolls over in her sleep and reaches out for the place he should be; all she finds is cold sheets. His secretary walks in on him staring a little to intently at the bottle of ink that he's hovering, raising his eyes to meet hers, colour high on his cheeks, as it drops like a weight to the table, ink spilling out over the contents of his desk_. Sometimes it's just too hard to explain, when he knows they won't understand. So instead he pretends.

Draco admits only to himself that he knows and understands dependence; he's struggled with it since the war, clawed his way up from the pits it has dropped him in, alone and determined, piecing his life back together bit by bit until he resembles more strongly his former self. He's overcome two of his strongest vices –muggle heroin and wizard whiskey, they were relatively easy he thinks mockingly to himself. In hindsight it always is.

The magic he has never been able to let go of, but he watches himself, keeps himself aware, looks out for _red flags_ and _warning signs_ as their called in rehabs and all those self help books he pretends he doesn't own, sometimes he pushes himself, sees how far he can go, how far he can submerge himself into the irresistiblely _warm_ magic before he eventually has to pull himself back, claw his way out until his fingers are red and raw and his body is covered in the scratches he's given himself and his voice is hoarse from the screams he wont let out and his head is still buzzing from the magic that's all around him. Sometimes it feels like he won't be able to get out this time.

He knows and understands addiction and that's why when he see's it reflected in the eyes of some one else he knows just how far they've fallen.

It doesn't even surprise him that he sees that destruction in the famous Harry Potter.

He noticed him the moment he entered the pub, a figure hunched against the cold wrapped in a black coat that matched his hair, a slow, deliberate walk giving him plenty of time to survey his surroundings but not making it obvious. Draco was familiar with that slow practiced pace, he adopted it often himself. The figure slumped down into his chair an imitation of casual weariness, leaned forward onto the bar and gave a quick survey of the room before nodding briskly to the bartender as he placed a pint in front of him.

Draco's own drink sat before him, a ring of condensation left perfect circles on the counter in front of him and he ran a finger through the moisture, drawing pictures that made no sense.

He felt the gaze on him, felt it burn across his flesh and leave trails of fire where they roamed. Try as he might he couldn't ignore it so he glanced causally at the cause, knowing what would meet his gaze even before he saw it. Emerald eyes, bright and brilliant like the flash of the killing curse met his. There was a moment of stillness before Draco inclined his head, lifting his glass and downing the rest in one swallow before raising to leave, nodding to the bartender as he left some crumpled notes on the counter, walking briskly out the door and into the chill of late evening. The grime on the walls and orange glow of the street lights more welcoming and familiar then his own bed lately.

Draco knows that the world is different to how it used to be, no matter how much people deny it. Nobody comes back from war whole. He thinks how it isn't a surprise that Harry is as destroyed as he is himself.

BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH

The burn. That's what he remembered most. The way the magic burned inside him, building brighter and brighter all the while becoming hotter, so hot it seemed like he couldn't possibly stand it much longer, that soon his body would burn up, explode from the unbearable heat. White hot fury that flashed black red and white behind his eyes until he had no other option then to let it out, the only way he could.

Harry would wake, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, cold sweat prickling his skin and eyes wide and unseeing. Shivers raked his body and his hand clasped desperately around his wand. He didn't even know how it got there; Ginny had made him stop sleeping with his wand under his pillow.

There were nights when he would wake and the room would be alive, furniture and books floating around the room at uncontrollable speeds. He would stutter an excuse in the morning if Ginny noticed any changes to the room. She always accepted the explanation, never thinking twice about it.

He didn't talk about the dreams, War changed everyone, and Harry had seen more then others. Sometimes he thinks Ginny just didn't notice, she slept like the dead, and nothing in this world could wake her unless she wished it.

After the war everything was different, and at the same time, was so determinedly the same. Nobody mentioned the war; though it was the one thing that tied them all together. Nobody mentioned it and sometimes Harry could believe that they really had just _moved on_. He would watch as they go through their days, drinking coffees and eating salads, wearing fashionable robes and walking around their offices with such purpose. They seemed to have forgotten all they went through, all they fought for. What people _died_ for.

And the thought terrified him.

His dreams were haunted by what he had seen, what he had done, the way the magic had enveloping him, burning hot and the only thing in this world he could rely on.

He would close his eyes at night, the last thing he would heard was Ginny's soft sleep murmurs, and suddenly he was opening them again to the sight of harsh flames eating slowly at another unremarkable house, the screams loud in the night and the taste of ash on his tongue. Other times he was alone, cold stone rooms and tunnels that never ended, flashes of the dark mark suspended heavy and satisfied in the sky, over another ruined town glowing so bright the moon looked wane compared to it.

All his life he'd wanted to be normal, and when he finally got the chance to be just that, he seemed unable to. He watched as others moved on around him, their ambitions and dreams so different now.

Sometimes it was like a blur, they were all moving and talking so fast about inconsequential things. He seemed lost, like he'd missed a homework assignment or two somewhere along the way and now was expected to understand what was going on.

He tried_, oh how he tried_, he smiled at the cameras, ate breakfast before work, lunch with a colleague or two and had a drink on the weekend with his friends, _loud voices and broad smiles hearing stories about so-and-so and getting the inside scoop on whatever was the latest news breaking story_. But to him it never connected, never really made _sense_. After fighting so long to have a chance to be normal, he wanted to love it. To have his _happily ever after_ that everyone believer he deserved. So he tried. Forced smiles making his cheeks hurt, while his mind buzzed loudly with the idle gossip and shocking stories that ran rampant through the ministry, his neighborhood, seemingly everywhere. He couldn't escape it no matter how hard he tried, couldn't drown it out.

Harry married Ginny the year after she finished Hogwarts. They had decided to wait, for Ginny to finish school and him to get settled into Auror training. And though it was never said out loud, as a mark of respect for those who had died.

Ginny had looked beautiful at their wedding, a figure in white and cream that smiled the whole day and glittered with magic and happiness. Harry watched her, beaming and blissful with the realization of all her dreams and felt strangely cold inside, like a cube of dread settling in his stomach, dousing any fire that existed. They were the perfect couple: he, the dashing hero, strong and brave and handsome. She, the poster-child of virtue and innocence, the high-school sweetheart. It would have made him sick if he hadn't longed for that sense of _normal_ so badly.

They lived in a small town house near London; convenient and nice and so heartbreakingly _normal_. Harry went each day to the ministry, kissing his wife goodbye before leaving. He was training as an Auror, Ginny as a teacher. Their marriage was a happy one; they lived in peaceful routine, the quintessential couple.

And Harry had never been more scared.

He was scared of the way she smiled all the time, as though nothing could penetrate the bubble of joy around her, when all he saw was risks and dangers around every corner. He hated the way she patted his shoulder almost patronizingly when he complained about his training, how they were fools and stupid and wouldn't know real danger if it danced in front of them. And oh how it danced; dark like shadowed rooms, elegantly like silk in the wind and so terribly seductive like the sway of a snake ready to strike.

His dreams were full of it. As they had always been, but now he wasn't shocked and scared of it like his teenage self had been. Now he studies it, watches the way the evil figures from his memory danced with their magic, swayed and swooped, hissing curses though clenched teeth.

For a while he could fool himself into thinking it was all alright. His training was strenuous, a steady stream of new spells to learn and perfect and a regular use for his magic. But then the questions started, he couldn't stop himself from asking them though he knew they made him different, his questioning of routine was unheard of before _'Why do __**that**__ when the enemy was clearly going to counter-attack like so…?' 'Why waste time with a maneuver like __**that**__ when you could use half the men and half the time and have the same results…?' _the others training with him seemed to exist in a mix of bewildered awe, jealousy and annoyance.

He didn't understand why the trainers talked about what they did as the _right thing_, they spoke about it like it was glamorous and noble, and at the same time was so clinical about the practical aspects of their work, as though knowing the right spell is all that is needed and it will all work out in the end. They ignored the push of adrenaline that made concentrating difficult; they didn't mention how magic became thick in the air till it was almost suffocating. _Didn't they remember? Didn't they remember hiding out, lonely days and even lonelier nights stretching on seemingly forever? Didn't they remember washing blood from their hands? Holding their comrades as they lay dying? Didn't they remember the burning hot embers or anger and the need to inflict pain? Didn't they remember the way the magic wrapped itself around them, hot and bright and so very powerful…_

Harry developed a routine to get through life; he pretended to be normal, he worked so hard on it he almost convinced himself. But even he could see that he was spending more and more time away from home, just so he wouldn't have to see the brightly coloured walls and chat inanely about this and that with Ginny. But to the world he was the perfect husband, finished his Auror training and was a dedicated worker, he lived the perfect life. It was an easy routine, _an easy life_. They were comfortable and Harry thought, happy. Until the day Ginny, smiling and bursting with happiness told him she was pregnant.

The Weasley family celebrated long and loud, they told everyone and it seemed the world knew over night. He was ambushed in the corridors at work, in the streets, in the shops, all by well-meaning strangers just bursting with happiness for him.

More then ever he felt completely out of the loop, this was another one of '_those things'_ the ones other people were taught how to deal with, what's normal to feel, to act, to think. Somehow he missed that lesson while he was out being anything but normal. But despite this, he smiled and nodded, accepting the congratulations with a cheeky grin; he held Ginny close to him and kissed her hair as he smiled broadly to the world. Nobody noticed or needed to know that he watched his wife's belly grow larger with barely restrained horror, that his mind spun into blurs when they discussed decorating the baby's room and the only way to continue smiling was to float small objects around behind everyone's backs as Ginny bustled around, the proud mother-to-be.

He started frequenting muggle pubs soon after Ginny's announcement. Muggle so he wouldn't be recognized, muggle so he could be invisible for a few moments, muggle so the stench of magic was a bit fainter. He liked the anonymity of the old muggle pubs that dotted the London landscape, dimly lit places where all sound is muted by old wood and the aroma of cigarette smoke, he chose these places so he could sit in silence and drink slow, deliberate mouthfuls and nobody raised a question, nobody _cared_. To them he was just another lonely soul that wandered the night. He didn't have to be a hero; he didn't have to be normal. The irony didn't escape him that the moment he gets what he's always wanted; he looks for a way to escape it.

Ginny never asked. She assumed he was out with Ron; they were always so close it was a logical conclusion. Harry didn't bother correcting her, he didn't think he could explain it if he tried.

It should have surprised him more then it did to see the hunched figure of Draco Malfoy in the corner of a dingy muggle pub, hidden down a back street; the smell of cigarette smoke thick in the air along with the scent of old wood and yeasty beer.

It should have surprised him more then it did to see him again after the first time, and again after that.

When James was born, Harry stared down at him, so small, so full of life, _so full of magic,_ in his wife's arms and felt the world fall out from under him. He couldn't bear to touch him, to feel that raw magic seeping out of his son, to see those green eyes -_so like his own-_ stare up at him, accusing and knowing as he floated the heavy vase of flowers on the bedside table without meaning to.

He nearly sobbed his thanks when the healer ushered him out claiming Ginny needed her rest. He started for home, but halfway there he thought of the empty space, of brightly coloured walls and the overwhelming stench of clean linen and flowers that always seemed to permeate the air. He didn't even realize where he was headed until he found himself entering the same dark little pub off a side street in the centre of London, nodding a greeting to the hunched figure, who raised his drink in toast as a reply. He was absurdly happy to catch the cool grey eyes and see that he wasn't alone.

**A/N**

Here's a revised version of Burning Paper Houses. It's not going to be a long story; well at least I don't think it will be. The next chapter should be out shortly, lets hope so anyway.

Please review, it gets me writing faster.

And thanks to _**Spiffing Repartee **_for the awsome summary, I'm sadly not very good at them.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own nothing

**BURNING PAPER HOUSES**

**In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons**

Croesus

There's a comfort in consistence, a reassurance in knowing something particular will always be there. The simplest of things can have the largest effect, tripping over the same tree root each morning on the way out the gate or nodding hello to the same stranger on the morning tube ride. Sometimes you don't even realize you rely on this _thing_ so entirely until you miss it, and the whole day your left frustrated and antsy for seemingly no apparent reason, and you continue feeling this way until whatever small, tiny, unnoticeable thing returns.

This feeling had been growing inside Harry for days now; he hides it well, like he hides many things. But slowly people were starting to notice, be it the tense set of his shoulders, the frown on his forehead or the way he taps his wand on his desk in a steady rhythm whenever people speak to him. He didn't understand what was wrong, just knew he was missing _something_.

Ginny was back from the hospital, baby James held tightly to her chest as though she couldn't bear to be parted from him for more then a moment. Molly was around almost all the time it seemed, she cooed over James incessantly and Harry was struck by how a simple, tiny little thing can reduce grown women into blithering idiots. It was late spring, the days were getting warmer but a slight crispness remained in the early hours of morning, soon disappearing into the gentle slow headiness of spring.

Some nights, Harry would stand by the crib, watch as James lay curled up under the red blanked, small snitches darting around the soft fabric. James would stare back some nights. Watch him with a calculating green gaze, Harry could almost believe he saw disappointment in those large liquid eyes as he gave into temptation and let his magic out, let his magic touch and play with the mountain of toys, with the heavy wooden furniture.

Ginny was happy all the time, beaming to the world and chatting loudly over the fence with the neighbors, who took turns to coo over _darling James_ before turning to gossip over this or that. It made Harry sick, he passed them on the way to work, he would smile and wave and kiss Ginny goodbye, pausing briefly to touch James. Looking down at him for a moment wondering at the crackle of magic that he could feel seeping out of the small child, each morning he barely resisted the urge to jerk his hand back, scolded by the raw magic that nobody else seemed able to feel.

The sunlight burned his eyes as it shone in Ginny's red hair and on the eerily colourful gardens of his street a harsh blur of yellows and greens with the occasional splash of brilliant spring flowers. It was always so bright these days, the world shone like a new layer of paint covered everything, his memories and dreams were the only dark patches in this new world, there the only colours that dared creep into the dark tones of black, white, grey, brown and deep, deep red _-red blood, like rust on his hands_-, were flashes of magic, reds and yellows, icy blues and shocking purples and of course, the brightest of them all, the intense green of the killing curse.

Ginny had been home a week before Harry could make excuses to leave. She kissed his cheek distractedly as she changed James and Harry turned to leave, slipping out the door and putting on his coat without a sound, free to wander off into the night for a few hours. Alone except for the crisp night air and the shadows that stretch on seemingly forever, the occasional glow of a street lamp, casting harsh orange light into the darkness his only companion.

The dim sound of muted voices and clinking glasses was almost muffled compared to the electric sound of _life_. The darkness of the room and the smoke enveloped him like a lovers embrace and Harry felt his shoulders relax for the first time in days; he could feel his lungs filling with the smell of second hand smoke, alcohol and old wood. Such smells should seem mundane, everyday and not overly pleasant, but to Harry, it was like coming home. Still his eyes darted around the room, taking count of all that was there, calculating their positions, their level of intoxication, his eyes settled on the figure of Draco Malfoy, he had raised his head as Harry entered, their eyes met for one brief moment. Draco inclined his head as a greeting before turning back to his drink and letting himself get lost in his mind again.

Harry often wondered, as he sat at the bar playing with his glass, drawing pictures in the condensation and occasionally watching the room through the blurred mirror behind the bar with a detached fascination, what it was Draco thought about. There was a tragic melancholy to him; Harry could sometimes imagine Draco as a figure in an old Noirfilm, oddly disjointed to the world around him, obviously out of place but yet, fascinating and beautiful as they watch the world.

Harry had heard somewhere, some random show he'd clicked onto late at night when he couldn't sleep perhaps, that the characters in Noir films are often fascinating, beautiful, exciting people, but at the heart of it, they are ultimately alone.

He felt more connected to this image of Draco, _the lone figure in a foggy street_, then he had felt to anybody since before the war, and if he was truly honest with himself, since long before that.

They never spoke to each other, they didn't really have to. Knowing the other was there and seeing that all too brief glance at the shadows hidden in the others eyes was comforting enough, reassuring in a way so few things were. Knowing the other was seeking something in the dark nights, lonely bars filled with lost souls and forgotten pasts was _enough_. Because they knew that in the end; they weren't alone.

The weeks had passed and a comfortable routine had emerged. It was much like before, but now he waited for James to be settled comfortably into his bed before Harry slipped into his coat and wandered out into the night. He became an almost regular fixture at the old bar; the owners nodded politely to him and knew he didn't want an idle chat.

The other patrons all became familiar faces; and he could distinguish them all by the tone of their voices. Most roughened by whiskey and cigarettes and age. He never spoke to any of them, nodded occasionally in greeting to some, but for the most part, he could have been just another stool at the bar. Faded and old and slotted into place perfectly.

Ginny never really asked where he went, it was an unspoken agreement, he was always home before too late, and some nights he didn't go out at all, instead staying in with her and James.

He walked to the pub, after apparating into the heart of London, a discreet alcove just a couple of blocks away. He liked the walk, the coolness of the air and the strange emptiness to the streets, though by no means empty. The crowds of the day disappeared, now people walked in a determined fashion, coats tucked around them tight and quieter then during the day, the people who walked the streets at night, in this part of London, away from the tourist hotspots were a different kind, there was a loneliness to them. It didn't matter if they were just coming home from work or going to a mates', or like him, just out to escape the claustrophobia of being at home. There was a lingering air of loneliness.

It happened so suddenly, one moment he was walking along, the next he was pushed into a dark lane way, body pressed up against the stone wall, and the frantic body of another man holding him there, a flimsy knife held to his throat and a course shaky demand for his wallet. He acted without thinking, adrenaline fueling his actions. The next second he was standing straight, his wand out and pointed to the chest of the man, bright red light illuminating the lane way and Harry felt the magic being ripped from his body and channeled though his wand. The stun was far more powerful then was necessary, he knew that, but his magic didn't care.

He fell backwards, grasping at the rough brick wall behind him as a violent shiver raked his body. Panting, he stared down with wide eyes at the figure that lay unmoving on the filthy, wet concrete. _Had it been raining when he arrived? Or had it just started?_ He couldn't remember, all he knew was his clothes wore soaked and clinging to his form and the rain beat down on him, hard and unrelenting.

He ran a shaking hand through his wet hair, pressing its coolness against his forehead in a futile attempt to clear it of the fog that had gathered there.

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye at the mouth of the lane. His eyes snapped up to find the source of the disturbance, wand at the ready and back ram rod straight.

The silhouette of a man stood against a backdrop of sodium-orange lights and the harsh flash of the occasionally passing cars headlights. The figure stood still, surveying the area, eyes lingering for the longest time on the stunned figure at Harry's feet. He took in Harrys defensive pose, practiced fighting stance and steady aim, despite the shivers that still pooled in the base of his spine.

A car turned on the road, flashing harsh white light into the mouth of the lane, illuminating the silent watcher. White blonde hair, ivory skin and an impeccably tailored suit. Draco Malfoy stood proudly, hands thrust deep into his pockets and a calm knowing expression on his face.

"They seem to start young these days." his voice was steady accented with the familiar well educated drawl, but now there was a hint of something else, a courser, rougher tint to his words like he had picked up somewhere along the way the distinctive brogue of the London streets. He stepped forward, cocking his head as he let a smirk settle on his lips, "Or maybe we're just getting older." Harry resisted the urge to look down at the man, knowing he looked young, still a teenager.

Draco walked towards them, eyes boring intently into his own, the occasional lingering glance at the figure on the ground Harry's only reprieve. Harry was struck abruptly of an image of a large cat, a panther perhaps, stalking its prey.

When he spoke again his voice was openly curious and somewhat awed. "Had you forgotten?" this idea seemed to confuse him somehow, though Harry had no idea what he was talking about. "Or wanted to perhaps?" this seemed to amuse him; he smirked at Harry, a malicious light twinkling in his eyes.

"Forgotten what?" Harry cursed himself for letting his voice waver slightly.

Draco paused briefly, the light in his eyes still there, even as his face changed. More curious now, as though he was a scientist inspecting a new kind of animal, never before seen.

"The Thrill." He stated, "How amazing it feels, the cocktail of adrenaline and chaos," he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth before looking directly into Harry's eyes. "The Magic." Harry huffed slightly, rolling his eyes and shifting uncomfortably, avoiding Draco's gaze.

"We're wizards Malfoy, the magic is always there." Unexpectedly Draco let out a sinister laugh, mocking him.

"You know that better then most, don't you?" he didn't wait for Harry to reply, "You feel it, always, crackling away in the back of everything you do. Prickling across your skin, whispering in your ear." He was close now, a meter away, Harry had unknowingly lowered his wand at some point, and it now hung limply in his hand aimed pointlessly at the ground. Draco had yet to reveal his own wand. He had focused his gaze now at the stunned figure between them, his gaze occasionally glancing up as he spoke, a teasing glint in his eyes. "But nothing compares to the simple rush of power, hot and amazing, that burns though your body when you're attacked. When the adrenaline makes everything hyper-clear, when all your senses are _alive. _Or maybe you really had forgotten." His words buzzed in Harry's ears, _how did he know?_ His shoulders slumped, so this is what it was about, Draco was going to expose him, show the world how un-normal he was.

"What would you know of it Malfoy?" for the first time Draco looked uneasy, the predatory gleam had gone, and instead there was something else, _fear perhaps?_ Harry frowned, not understanding what was going on.

"I'm probably the only person you know that would understand. Tell me, does the little wife notice you use your magic to ground yourself? Does she notice her precious husband can't sleep at night like normal people?" Harry backed away, his mind spinning.

"How do you know?" Draco let out a harsh laugh, full of mocking and bitterness.

"Because I'm like you, and believe me, it pains me to admit I am anything like the Boy Hero, but I am. Everybody else doesn't notice, doesn't remember." He paused here, looking at Harry in earnest, "It's not just a game, the really _don't _remember it like you do, like _I_ do. It's all over for them, but for us, it never ends, it just goes on, forever. Every night we relive it. They forget, they move on. But we _can't_." Harry backed further away, his eyes wide with fright and fear,

"Your wrong, maybe that's what its like for you, but not me, I'm happy, I have a son now, I'm _happy_." Draco snorted, shaking his head.

"You can't fool me potter, you never could. I'm not one of your adoring public; I know you're not as pure as you say you are, I know you Potter." Harry set his face, pocketed his wand and stormed out of the lane, tossing over his shoulder as he passed a quick 'bugger off Malfoy.'

Draco watched him go, turning to look at the still figure on the ground, snorting as he looked at the young face and dirty clothes. He gave him a quick kick before apparating away.

Harry watched from the mouth of the lane, hidden behind a dumpster, body shaking, collapsing onto the dirty ground and dry heaving into the grime. _How did he know?_ He felt sick, feverish, disgusted with himself. _Nobody could know._

When he returned home it was late, he stripped off his dirty clothes and washed his face and hands in the clean porcelain sink. The mirror above the basin showed a shadow of a man, dark circles under his eyes, hair messy and eyes wide in fright, darting around the room. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair. He felt the bile rise once more to his throat. He swallowed it and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in hopes of dispelling the image of the wreck of a man from his eyes.

He climbed into bed beside his wife and curled up, clutching his pillow tightly and watched through the window as the night pass.

**A/N** Please review now that you've read, they inspire a quicker update, and a better update.

So, the second chapter, hope you enjoyed.


	3. Chapter 2

**BURNING PAPER HOUSES**

_He was floating; a soft, warm cloud of nothingness enveloped him. There was no fear, no anger, no responsibility or purpose. There were no lights that shone a harsh white glow that washed all colour from the world and no deafening buzz of voices, suffocating and overwhelming._

_There was nothingness, because he willed it to be so. There was a perverse pleasure to be had in the elimination of everything; to suspend existence so entirely._

The noise returned suddenly, like opening a door to a 'silenced' room and finding a riot inside, Harry's eyes snapped open abruptly he was momentarily blinded by the brutal glow of artificial daylight and cream walls. There was a heavy thud right in front of him and his eyes drifted to his desk top. Miscellaneous objects lay across the table, dropped suddenly from where he had apparently been hovering them, the tendrils of his magic having escaped his control in a moment of respite.

A sick feeling rose in his throat as he stared at the random objects his magic had picked to play with. There was nothing special about them, and nothing that required the intense focus they were currently subjected to, but Harry stared at them as though seeing them for the first time. The ornate silver elephant Hermione had brought him from India, the miniature Quaffle that he used as a stress ball at times, the framed picture of himself and Ginny, smiling blissfully at the camera, waving occasionally.

Crushing guilt attempted to claw its way from his gut to his throat, but he swallowed thickly and pushed it away, locking it away in a heavy steel box in his chest. He felt like he had failed some sort of test, proving himself weak and cowardly, and he felt like the whole world had seen it, was laughing silently and staring at him with such disappointment in their eyes.

Ever since his surreal meeting with Draco Malfoy a week ago Harry had been determined to prove him wrong, to prove he had control over his magic. But each time he failed and caught himself in the process of hovering objects, or randomly transfiguring things Draco's cultured voice rings mockingly in his head _'I know you Potter_' it made him want to shout and scream and kick things. To make things blow up and shatter into a million pieces. But instead he tried to ignore it, drowned it out with conversations with Ginny, his colleagues, anyone. But each time he opens his mouth lately he feels a hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him, and he thinks if he lets it out he might never stop.

_If Malfoy could tell so easily, can everyone? Do they see me, weak and desperate? Poor Harry Potter, can't even control his own magic…_

"Alright there Harry? Looking a bit green around the gills you are." The harsh voice of his cubical neighbour jarred him from his blind perusal of the objects, and he looked up into the grinning face of Marcus Lenroy, a fellow Auror.

"Yeah I'm fine, just writing up this report." He gestured vaguely towards his desk, Lenroy didn't even spare it a glance, just nodded emphatically rolling his eyes heavenward as though in agreement.

"Bloody paperwork." he muttered before continuing on, "Going for your lunch soon? Only you aint left your station since you came in this morning, haven't heard a peep out of you." Harry glanced at the clock above his desk, and it showed it was half past two. Dread strangled him suddenly, _how long had he been sitting there? Letting his magic roam free like that?_ He fumbled his way through the rest of his conversation with Lenroy, hearing nothing before finally managing to excuse himself.

He found himself in the toilets; the cool tiles a harsh contrast to the heat of his body as he leaned against the wall, closing the door behind him. Shutting his eyes he stumbled towards the basins, leaning heavily on them and trying to breath through the nausea that was threatening to suffocate him. Opening his eyes tiredly he met his own gaze in the mirror, he started back at the sight of his own reflection. His skin was pasty, eyes bulging and red rimmed, haunting green that stared fixedly into the mirror. His hands were shaking he realized suddenly, moving his gaze to look at them as though they belonged to someone else, they shook noticeably, pale and callused, his right hand was clawed in front of him as though clutching an invisible wand. An unexpected sob escaped him and he covered his face, closing his eyes hoping to see something else when they opened. Instead he ran the tap, cool water washing over his hands, cooling the heated flesh before he splashed his face, hoping to clear it of the haunted look he had glimpsed earlier.

Harry has never known stability, he's never known the comfort of a well ordered life, of organized rosters and routines. During the war it had helped him, the constant alertness needed, the ability to change a plan at the very last second, _think on your feet or lose them_.

The only constant he's ever had was his magic; even before he could name it as such it was always there, like a gentle fire in his gut, reassuring and comforting.

His dependence on that fire grew slowly; he couldn't say when it went from a reassurance to a need. A deep burning ache for that feeling, the spark that flared through his body no matter how simple the spell.

The others never seemed to understand, Ron and Ginny had grown up around the magic, had felt its gentle licks to their flesh from the womb and he doubted they even thought about it, he did, almost constantly, he couldn't _stop_.

Hermione cared more about the theory then the practice, she could spend hours devouring the history and reason behind why a spell worked, but the magic itself seemed more of a logical conclusion then anything else.

He sometimes thought he was the only one in the world who felt it. Who was weighted down by the constant pressure of the magic whirling around him in a endless dance of colour and sound and _magic_ but then he would see it sometimes in their eyes, a flash of a smile and hastily released breath that was part exhilaration part desperation.

Even those partially revealed moments didn't happen enough, and often he though he was completely alone in this world were magic was equally smothering and liberating.

It was frightening, actually, this overpowering need. Because if he gave in to it, if he allowed himself to, he wasn't sure anything would be able to stop him

BPH BPH BPH BPH

The pub was warm and welcoming as he entered; sitting down on the worn stool he smiled at the bartender and felt the ice that had fused itself to all his organs melt ever so slightly. He glanced at the slouched figure of Draco Malfoy, and felt a jolt of anger that he seemed completely normal, he watched his drink with the same intensity he always did, he made no attempt to meet Harry's gaze, and seemed truthfully to not notice he was even there.

Harry felt violated somehow, as though Draco knowing his secret made him more vulnerable, as though there was a part of him that Draco held firmly in his hand. He didn't like the feeling, didn't like someone else knowing how weak he was. It was his secret, and one he wished to take to his grave unshared.

He drank his beer silently, letting the normalcy of it envelope him, the low murmuring voices a comforting pulse in the back of his mind. If he concentrated hard enough he could feel the lick of magic coming from the only other wizard in the room, a gentle wave that all magical folk emit without knowing. In the wizarding world there was so much of it, it seeped into the furniture and the air, it was such a part of that world that the muggle world was jarring with its absence. After two beers he slowly rose and made his way from the pub and out into the crisp night air. The streetlights cast eerie shadows along the lane walls and the familiarity was momentarily unsettling to Harry as he wrapped his coat tighter around him and started towards the street.

The footsteps that followed him weren't entirely unexpected, but he still felt the adrenaline rise within him. He turned and faced Draco, who smirked as he saw Harry's hand resting on his concealed wand.

"Gonna hex me Potty?" The childish taunt seemed more sarcastic and belittling when spoken in Draco's deep voice then Harry thought possible.

"What do you want Malfoy?" He repressed a sigh as he watched Draco watching him.

"Just wondered if you though about the conversation we had, is all." There was a casual ease around him that annoyed Harry. How dare he be so calm, so relaxed when Harry's world was spinning desperately out of his control, the display at work earlier that day was evidence enough of that.

"There's nothing to think about Malfoy, your deluded." It was a scripted reply, and it felt heavy and dumb on his tongue, Draco's unimpressed look suggested it wasn't very convincing.

Draco was silent for a moment and Harry thought about leaving, but the next thing he knew Draco had raised his wand and a hex was flying towards him. Harry reacted on instinct, casting a shield charm before throwing a curse in retaliation.

They fought for what felt like eternity and a handful of minutes; the flashes of light illuminated the lane, like strobe lights at a disco, creating disconcerting flashes of momentary vision in a rainbow of colours. The old stone walls loomed above them and the sounds of cars passing not far away were overshadowed by the crackle of magic and the ultra-sharp vision brought on by a heady kick of adrenaline.

Harry was panting, not from exhaustion, but from the rush of a fight. He hadn't felt this alive in so long, it made the pathetic glimmers of power from the simple charms he had been using to curb the edge seem insignificant and pointless. This realization crashed into him, clearing his head of the sudden fog that had settled there. Rolling out of the way of another curse he cast one last glance at Malfoy, who seemed to glow, his cheeks flushed and eyes alive, lit by the multicoloured lights that lingered in the air. It was like a painting, an elegant figure in a dirty back lane splashed with the most brilliant colours imaginable.

Harry turned and ran.

The steady sound of his feet hitting the pavement gave him something to concentrate on, other then the buzz of magic and adrenaline running through his blood. He dimly heard the footfalls that followed him, but he didn't care, just kept moving, hoping if he ran far enough and fast enough the last few minutes could be erased from his memory, as though if he could forget about the heady rush and the feeling of power that had enveloped him just moments before as he fought for the first time in what felt like a life time, it would all go away and he wouldn't have to face the truth, that he could continue on ignoring the dark shadow on his shoulder and continue being normal.

Eventually he stopped, doubling over under a grimy bridge trying to catch his breath, his lungs filled with the scent of the dirty river that rushed next to him, and the dirt and metallic smell of the stone foundations of the bridge. He absently traced the lines of the graffiti that covered the underbelly of the bridge with his eyes. Draco came to a halt next to him, annoyingly, he only panted heavily.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Harry whispered, closing his eyes and wishing he would wake up in his bed at home, curled up next to Ginny.

"Because you cant keep denying it. It's a part of you." Harry ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

"I was doing a fine job before you came alone." He knew without looking that Draco was watching him.

"Where you? Where you really? Or is that just something you tell yourself to make you feel better? Can you honestly tell me that you were fine, living a shadow of a life, casting pathetic little charms to curb the sharp pain of _want_ even just for a moment." Harry felt sick, he didn't want to hear this again, didn't want the truth to be spoken out loud so cruelly.

"I was dealing; I had it all under control." Draco let out a sharp laugh, it echoed around the bridges rafters, and Harry opened his eyes as though he would be able to see it bounce around them.

"Newsflash Potter, its never under control. You think you have it, but it keeps building and building inside you, until eventually, it destroys you." Harry was shaking his head, even as he knew it was true. He sunk dejectedly onto the dirty ground, leaning against the foundations and gazed at the river, lights from the street above and the passing cars and buildings glittered across the waters surface, making the shadows of the water seem deeper and more terrifying.

"What am I going to do?" he asked the night, feeling the magic curl inside him, the adrenaline was fading leaving behind the bitter taste of truth and the cloying feeling of suffocating.

"Magic isn't something you can just quit. That's what makes it so much more dangerous then other things, it's a part of you," Draco repeated, looked out into the night, his voice was shadowed and haunted, Harry for the first time really looked at him, there was something defeated about him demeanor, it was like he was lost somehow and Harry realized for the first time that he wasn't alone, he wasn't the only one that felt left behind by everyone and everything. Draco continued without looking to see if he was listening. "The only thing you can do is let it out occasionally, and hope that it doesn't pull you under. That you don't drown this time."

They remained in silence for a while longer, Harry sat and watched the play of light across the river and Draco watched the night around them.

"It's so hard." Harry didn't realize he had spoken until Draco turned to look at him, but he continued blindly, speaking in a low, steady voice. "I just feel like I'm drowning sometimes and that nobody else sees's or understands. During the war…" he stopped speaking, glancing quickly at Draco who watched him silently, _you don't talk about the war_ it was the rule. But he felt himself compelled to speak, to finish his thought, to somehow explain to Draco why he was like he was, even though it seemed he already knew. "During the war I was constantly on the move I had to stay on my toes, there wasn't a moment to rest and the only thing I could rely on was my magic. And when I…. when I defeated Voldemort I just felt this _power_, it was like nothing I'd ever felt before." He'd never spoken about it before, either he wasn't ready of people didn't want to know, it was over, that's all that mattered. "Then it was over, and I had all this energy inside me, and I couldn't get rid of it, the world seemed… muffled somehow, and the only time I felt alive anymore was when I used magic." He trailed off, Draco remained silent, he almost expected some condemnation, for Draco to shout and call him a freak. Instead Draco nodded slowly, he moved his gaze around the layers of graffiti though it was like he didn't see it.

"The war…" his deep voice faltered slightly, "The war kept us on the edge of life and death, we had to fight to survive, and the only thing that promised our survival was our magic. It became such a part of me; I began to depend on it. I saw so much fucked up shit, _did_ so much shit, the only comforting thing in my life anymore was my magic." Harry felt gratitude rise up inside him along with the bitterness at what Draco had done during the war, a Death Eater in everything but a brand, and seemingly, a passion for destruction.

Draco broke the silence after a time, his voice deeper, shadowed, tinged with bitterness and hatred so strong it made Harry pause and listen closer. "Voldemorts power was like nothing I had ever felt before. His magic was as fucked up as his ideals. It was hot, suffocating, sickly sweet at times, it was like razor wire wrapping itself around me, it hurt to be touched by it, but at the same time there was so much _power_ to it, it was like…" he paused, licking his lips absently to wet them, "It was like drowning, where all you see when you break the surface is crimson sky, and when your pulled back under, its just an abyss of nothingness. You feel like you will never be saved, like a part of you has been left in that abyss somewhere and you don't know what or where."

The night stretched on around them, like it for did many nights after. They would meet sometimes at the old pub, other times they stumbled upon each other in the private shadows of the bridge. Sometimes they shared a drink, other times they fought, hissing curses through clenched teeth. They shared a freedom never before known in the dark dirty home they had found.

**A/N**

Yet another chapter. I wrote this chap, and the next and a large bit of the one after that, all today, I have had H.I.M's songs, 'Our Diabolikal Rapture' and 'Dead Lovers Lane' on repeat continuously from around 9am, to 5:30 pm, and have pretty much written solidly, so either thank that, or hate it… depending on what you think of the chaps…. And tell me what you think of the chaps in a lovely review!


	4. Chapter 3

**BURNING PAPER HOUSES**

The night held promise, there was a mystery and a seductive air to the night world, like anything could happen, people became like animals, hidden in the shadows of dirty streets and back lanes they were free from the cruel, ever seeking eye of the public, away from the harsh glow of daylight that showed all your imperfections as starkly as ink on paper if you let it.

They found themselves in the shadow of the old bridge; old stone the only witness to their broken control. They let themselves drown in their magic, let it consume them and envelope them. They fought like wild beings, letting their magic shoot from their wands and fingertips lighting the shadowed alcove with the most brilliant colours imaginable, watching them sparkle and glitter across the water.

They were free in the darkness, a bottle of spirits that tasted like liquid fire in their mouths shared as they let themselves soar with the heady mix of adrenaline and power, whenever it happened, they were creatures kissing in the rain, they were rough and desperate something came loose inside them and they soared above the world drowning in air. sometimes they clasped at each other when it felt like their magic would lift them from this earth and carry them off, gasping breaths and sloppy open mouthed kisses, more teeth then tender, sharing the magic from one electrified body to the other.

Though they didn't go there every night, the time they spent together, where their magic was free to roam and play, was when they felt most alive. They were freer and more innocent then they had felt in a long time, since their Hogwarts days. Those shared moments made the days more bearable, made the blinding lights less harsh, and stopped their magic clawing at them in a desperate attempt to be let out. They lived in a gentle daze; everything was softer and easier to deal with.

Harry started to spend more nights out then he did at home, crawling into bed past midnight freshly showered so he didn't smell of old booze, smoke from Draco's cigarettes, and the earthy scent of the stone bridge.

The magic was still always _there_, and so was the need. he felt it seeping out of him, tingling across his skin, but he felt like he could handle it now, didn't let it drown him so entirely; except when he was hidden away with Draco, their magic wrapping around them tight like a womb. There were times when he felt himself falling, further and further down into the depths, but Draco was always there to pull him back out, when he wasn't falling right along side him, their hands clasped together, his eyes wide and lips parted as he panted smiling at him like they shared a secret nobody else knew.

The nights stretched on seemingly forever, spring turned to summer, summer to autumn and still they let themselves be submerged in the darkness of their magic, let it cover them entirely.

As they succumbed to the craving, the need grew, becoming more hungry and desperate. Still they fed the beast, more nights then not going home before dawn, too exhausted most nights to be haunted by the dreams they both so feared.

BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH

The stones were uneven under his feet, he wobbled and leaned against the rough surface of the bridge's base, it was dirty and stained by years of graffiti, the stone was cold to the touch and left grit on his fingertips. A thousand names and words marred the underbelly, he had seen it innumerable times before but each time he found new patterns in the old marks, a thousand hands leaving their mark, generations old, overlapping and intertwining, creating a patchwork of letters. A star chart of human history.

Harry swayed and leaned fully against the foundations, listening to the water slop rhythmically against the banks of the river. The quite of the night almost eerie, few cars passed and fewer people wandered the streets, especially in this ill lit part of town. His head spun and he closed his eyes against the disconcerting blur of lights on the water surface.

Unabated, Ginny's words from earlier that day ran through his mind '…_They're called Unforgivable's for a reason!' _'_It's despicable Harry…' '…I don't know how anyone can justify, even to themselves why they would have to use them!' '…don't you think Harry?'_ she didn't realize what she had been saying, preaching to a guilty soul. At the time he had wanted to shout at her that she didn't know anything, point fingers and tell her she was wrong. But now, hidden alone in the shadows of the bridge he had spent many nights, he wondered if maybe she was right; wondered, not for the first time if there was something wrong with him, if he was twisted somehow, _wrong_.

The heavy clunk of feet on cobblestone alerted him of an approaching figure, a moment later the tingle of familiar magic revealed Draco. Harry watched his approach dispassionately, focusing instead on the cool of the stone and the worn grooves that his fingers explored.

"You look like shit." Draco's gentle rumble caressed the harsh edges of Harry's mind; he snorted and rolled his eyes, watching absently as his breath created a wisp of smoke in the night air. It was colder then he thought. Draco waved his wand and cleared a place for him to sit. Absently he picked up a couple of stones, worn smooth and faded shades of grey, he let his magic play with them, hovering them and setting a steady obstacle for them, weaving around each other like partners in an old time dance. Harry watched them move, winding through the air and around each other, never wavering from the set course, effortless and elegant in a way which seemed out of place in the grimy shadows.

He let the gentle wave of Draco's magic wash over him, a calming force, like the waft of your lovers' perfume. Comforting in its familiarity.

"What is it?" Draco didn't look away from the stones; his voice was curious but not overly interested. As though knowing Harry had something on his mind and that it would seem easier to deal with if he spoke it out loud. Harry wondered, not for the first time, how Draco got to be so perceptive.

"It's nothing, just..." he trailed off, concentrating on the passage of the stones and the gentle noise of the river. It seemed so trivial now, with Draco's silent presence, the warm glow of magic around them and the endless darkness. "…I was talking with Gin today, she said something… its nothing, I overreacted." Draco raised an elegant brow, glancing at him quickly.

"Clearly it's not nothing, or you wouldn't have overreacted." It surprised him sometimes how Draco could do that, know him so effortlessly, nobody else seemed to, not anymore at least; it's been a long time since he's felt so transparent. It's equally invigorating and terrifying.

"We were talking about the Unforgivable's, she said only ugly souled people could cast them." Draco snorted, returning his gaze to the stones. Harry latched onto it though. "So you don't agree?"

Draco let the stones fall, a sudden motion, like the cutting of a puppets strings, so _final_. Leaving behind a pointless creature, void of life and meaning and movement.

"'Course I don't agree. Any one with half a brain would know it was bollocks." His brutality was refreshing as much as it was infuriating, there was no second guessing what he meant, no indecision on his behalf, he made everything seem so _easy_. Draco turned to face him as he leant back on his forearms. "The Unorgivable's aren't inherently _evil_. They're not powered by it. Evil isn't a conceivable notion, it's the corruption of an existing thing, be it a thought, a feeling a… What's that line? _'Nothing is neither good nor bad, thinking makes it so.' _In another time, in another place, what we consider _Evil_, or _Bad_ may be very different to what they do." Harry allowed himself a moment of surprise at Draco knowing a muggle quote, before returning to what he was saying. "The Unforgivable's aren't so terrible because of what they are exactly, it's horrible, don't get me wrong, but that's not why they are so powerful. They get their power from base human emotions, you have to _feel_ it, you have to want it with every fiber of you being. You have to WANT them dead; you have to WANT them to hurt so unimaginable, you have to WANT to control them. Without that desire, that _need_ they wouldn't be even half as powerful.

"Those emotions and feelings, primal desires if you will, are always there, in the heart of everything we do. If we want something badly enough we will conceive a way to get it. It's not innate evil that makes those spells powerful, the most kind and gentle and forgiving person in the world could cast an unforgivable just as easily as a cold blooded killer if pushed hard enough." He paused, running his fingers through the dirt as he thought over his words. "Actually, if pushed, they could cast it better then a killer. Coz to them, it would truly, really mean something."

They sat in silence for a while more, watching the lights shimmer across the river, like the stars were dancing on the waters surface.

"I cast them all, all three." It felt strange to say it out loud like that, nobody knew except him, and now it was out there, hanging in the air with the cloud of his breath. Draco raised his focus to look at him but Harry stoically ignored his gaze. "You're right, you have to want it, you have to want it so bad it hurts. The first time…" His voice was hollow to his own ears; he swallowed thickly, licking his suddenly dry lips. "The first time it didn't even work properly. I was chasing her, Bellatrix, through the ministry; I remember thinking how dark her hair was, like a void, pure darkness. I remember thinking how she would be beautiful if I didn't hate her so much. I felt that hatred swallow me whole, the rage. I wanted her to hurt so badly, I didn't even realize what spell I was casting until it was past my lips, it was thick and cloying, tasted like ash and liquorish, and the _magic_…" he took a shaky breath, "It was white hot and burned me up. It stole my breath and made me dizzy from the rush. It knocked her down, barely lasted a second, and she was laughing, I just wanted her to shut up, the magic was so loud in my ears…" he trailed off again, Draco was watching him, not judging, just curious as though Harry was talking about some new and strange creature that he had met once, a creature of shadows and nightmares, that moved with the grace of a bird in flight and was as beautiful as the longest sunset. "Avada Kavada… it's the look on their face you remember most, their last moments of life; lit by the most brilliant green imaginable… it changes their faces, makes them glow in the darkness like ethereal beings, its almost beautiful, except for the look in their eyes.

"There's just enough time between casting the curse and it hitting them for them to realize. They _know_, without a shadow of a doubt that they won't live to breathe another breath. There was a surprise on his face, as though he hadn't though I could do it. Like he was betrayed by my killing him, as he stood there, _blood of my friend on his hands_, and he looked like he didn't know why I was doing it…" his voice rose slightly with anger. But just as quickly as it came the flash of anger disappeared, and he continued in his steady even voice. "It's strange really, The Crucius Curse is more of a rush, a sudden bolt of lightning to the blood stream, Avada Kavada is a different kind of intense, its like a knife into your organs, it hurts, but at the same time its like the very brink of orgasm." He stopped speaking, his eyes growing large as he realized what he said, a blush rose to his cheeks and he chanced a quick glance at Draco, he was smirking, but there was nothing mocking, simply understanding. He though of how differently his friends would have reacted to a statement like that. He shut that though off quickly, before it had time to settle and fester.

"And the third?" Draco's voice was strong, as though they were discussing something interesting, but in no way controversial. Harry envied that, the way he was so calm, he knew his magic controlled him; he was comfortable with that fact.

"It's more of a distant ache, a throb in your gut and a tingle in your palms that lasts as long as the spell does. He was weak, barely struggled, but when he did… it was like snakes were in my gut, rolling around each other, wrestling and there was the occasional jolt of power, like the bite of sharp teeth." Draco nodded, looking away over the river to the lights, there was a stillness in the air, as though the world was holding its breath, but Draco didn't look like he was expecting any more and Harry felt gratitude rise up inside him.

"I never knew if I wanted to use them or not. Sometimes the very thought sickened me, and even the sound of them made me wanna be sick, the spells were weak, but still powerful enough to work. I guess there was a part deep inside me that was angry enough, that held enough hatred." Harry glanced over at him, watched as the lights flickered across his face. There was a comfort in knowing he wasn't alone.

BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH

They stayed out late, under the shadows of the old bridge watching the night world move on around them, casting simple charms to amuse themselves and more complex incantations to feel the steady spike of magic envelop them, they shared fumbled kisses at the brightest sparks, where the magic burned white around them and it was like they were floating on a cloud of their own power, needing to connect somehow, to feel something real and warm pressed against them to make the spinning, rocking flashes of magic seem a little less intimidating, clasping hands as they rocked together with the waves that enveloped them. Panting from the magic and watching as it crackled around them, lighting the patchwork of names and dates and slogans that rose above them like a great wave.

It was near dawn when they finally parted, making their ways back into the real world of stonewash grey and white, Harry returned to the smell of talcum powder and Ginny's flowery perfume. As he fumbled to close the door behind him, he heard the gently shuffle of Ginny's footsteps.

"Oh thank Merlin Harry! I was so worried. Where have you been?" He removed his coat and moved past her further into the house.

"I just lost track of time, and then it was really late, I didn't want to disturb you." He muttered weakly, as he headed into the kitchen to get a glass of water, anger flared in Ginny's eyes.

"Harry, its six in the morning! And you _lost track of time?_" Harry muttered a 'yeah' as he put the glass on the sink, moving past her again as he headed to the bathroom, he could feel the dirt from stones and the sticky feeling of climax and magic left on his skin.

"We're going to mums today for lunch remember? Or had you forgotten?" Harry felt a spark of something that could have been regret in his gut; there was a time that lunch at the Weasley's was a highlight of his week.

"Of course I haven't forgotten, I just…" he paused, rubbing his eyes tiredly "I just need a shower." He felt so tired all of a sudden, weighed down, the fire of the previous evening dwindling and the freedom that came with his confessions being over shadowed by a feeling of claustrophobia. He glanced back as he closed the bathroom door, he felt bile rise in his throat and his head throbbed painfully as he saw Ginny, early morning sun shining in through the window casting a warm halo around her as she stood in the doorway, dressed in her worn dressing gown and socked feet, holding James to her as though for warmth. She looked so lost, confused and alone. "I'm sorry Ginny, I should have called or something. I'll be right out and make you breakfast." She gave a wobbly smile and watched as he closed the door. Draco's voice from one of their night a while ago whispered in his mind, _'You have everything, and let me guess, there's still something missing.'_

**A/N**

Hope you liked it, please review and tell me what you thought. I have the next chapter started…


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